Grotesque
by Dragonlord Stephi
Summary: Dawn tries not to show her offense. "We serve to the best of our ability, Excellency. We will only to please you." T to be safe.


**Grotesque**

The splash of cold water makes her shiver, but does little else to dispel the dust on her face, seemingly lodged in every corner, dimple, and frown line. Tuesday's Dawn scowls, and splashes another handful, rubbing vigorously. When the ripples subside enough to give a clear reflection, she peers in, but then drags a hand through the pool angrily and steps away. Some progress had been made, but not enough.

"There really is no point," says Dusk as he draws near. His face is caked with soot, so darkly that his black tongue almost melts in. "Even if you managed to get it all off, you know the dust will be back as it was before long."

"I know," she mutters. The dust is everywhere in the Far Reaches, so thick and cloying that she feels it in every breath. "It was futile. I should not have wasted time on something so trivial."

Dusk inclines his head, ever so slightly, neither agreeing nor disapproving. "The Grim has called for you."

"I shall have to hurry, then," Dawn says. "Where is he?"

"I believe he is at the Station," Dusk replies. "Do not keep him waiting."

Dawn nods and sets off at a brisk pace. It is not far to the Station, but the faster the better.

She finds the Grim sitting on an iron bench, surveying the lines of indentured workers descending into the maw of the pit. He doesn't look at her as she draws close, but says, "Ah, that single spring has given me a return of over a thousand-fold. Still, it was quite beautiful. A shame to see it go…" He turns and looks at her with his dark, dark eyes, black like soot, though there is none on his person; the Grim alone is immaculate within the Far Reaches, the Second Key dispelling any dust before it can alight on his skin or be breathed into his lungs. "I wonder if I could replicate the spring, a view of what the Far Reaches used to be."

"I am sure Your Excellency will be able to replicate whatever it is you desire," Dawn replies truthfully. She believes, with all her being, that no one can fashion Nothing the way the Grim can. Not even those snooty, Upper House sorcerers, who act as if they created the substance.

"A small worldlet would do for the foundation," the Grim says, brushing over her compliment as if it were a given. "It is but a simple matter to then reshape its superficial aspects into a likeness of the spring. I remember it perfectly, of course."

The Grim remembers all he's seen; a single glance, and it is stored in his memory forever. This memorization of even the most trivial details has proved invaluable in his work, allowing him to draw on vast banks of recollection to combine and recreate perfections, improvements on the original so spectacular that Dawn is certain the original artists would die of envy to see such wonderful refinement.

"It would be beautiful, Excellency," Dawn says.

He nods this time, and stands. "As of the last report, Dawn, how much as the Pit increased since its original size?"

"Sevenfold, Excellency." Dawn has a knack for remembering numbers, just as the Grim remembers visual form. It came with taking inventory for millennia.

"Quite an increase," the Grim says. His tone, however, suggests he has expected such a number. "I shall need more overseers."

"That would be wise, Excellency."

"If only I could have seven of you," the Grim adds. "Three Times are so few compared to the vastness of the Pit."

"We will work harder, Excellency," Dawn replies. He has given this type of lecture before, expecting more. Dawn knows he simply wants the best he can get from all of them, and it is not wrong of him to ask. They must be all he needs, or he must find more worthy Denizens to fill their roles; that is something Dawn, Noon, and Dusk have believed since before the Far Reaches was a single spring, when the Architect first drew them out of Nothing and impressed their duties upon them.

"Is this a matter of will or ability?" the Grim muses. His mouth twitches upwards, momentarily. It is not a smile- the Grim rarely, if ever, smiles- but a revelation of churning thought.

Dawn tries not to show her offense. "We serve to the best of our ability, Excellency. We will only to please you."

"Of course. More loyal servants, I could not ask for. Yet is your ability enough?"

"Excellency!" Dawn exclaims. "If it is not, please, tell us so! We will do what we need to serve you best. Whatever can improve our ability, we shall gladly do!"

"You speak well," the Grim says, "like Noon and Dusk speak well. I am most pleased." He sighs and paces in front of her. "Thinking this through will be most difficult. Leave me; I shall summon you when I have need of you once more."

"Excellency." Dawn curtsies, and takes her leave.

The pain is intense, hitting every nerve. It feels as if she is being pulled apart, limb by limb, atom by atom. _Because that is what's happening,_ she realizes.

Dawn hits the floor, gasping for breath, but none comes. Dusk and Noon are by her side, mirroring her agony, though they have managed to remain standing.

"The pain will soon pass," the Grim says. She cannot see him; pain blinds her with starbursts of white and red as her blood boils and pops, breaking out of vessels to flood her eyes. "This is necessary."

Dawn can't imagine anything like this necessary, but even as she thinks so, another part of her says it must be true.

"I shall meld the three of you into one," the Grim continues, "and then recast you into seven. That way, you shall be more effective in overseeing my Pit, and maintaining order. This is is necessary."

Her back arches, and she expels all the air she had left in a scream.

"You are the most worthy servants in the House, truly."

She hates him, but as the pain intensifies and an odd, mismatch of thoughts that aren't hers- _Dusk and Noon,_ she realizes, even as they recognize her with _Dawn_ \- rise to drown it out. Buried, the hate simmers in the pits of three stomachs, and she feels it in all three. Three pairs of eyes, three bodies in unbearable pain, all of it coming together, melting, incomprehensible… The hate remains, but pushing its way to the top of the cacophony of thought and sense is a single feeling of strong devotion. Even with this pain, they want only to serve.

To the best of their ability.

 **A/N: I'm back!**


End file.
